Holocaust
by Amiastine
Summary: After defeating Harry Potter, Voldemort looks back to a time when people were dragged from their homes, when they were put in trains and sent off to concentration camps, where they either worked or died. Muggleborns are the new targets. DMHG
1. Prologue

Mankind never learns from its past mistakes. Worse, after defeating Harry Potter and affirming his power over Wizarding Britain, Voldemort takes it one step further. He looks back to a time when people were dragged from their homes in the middle of the night, when they were put in trains and sent off to concentration camps, where they either worked or died. Muggleborns, scum of the Wizarding World, undeserving of their magical powers, are the new targets. Will old rivalries grow deeper and deadlier in such dark times or will they be washed away by the horror of it all, in order to make way for something rare and precious…true love? A Hermione/Draco story.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Harry Potter.

**Holocaust – Prologue**

Hermione Jane Granger, 19, barely felt the prick of the needle as it went too far through the layers of fabric and into her already sore thumb. Not used to sewing the 'hard' way, she'd already hurt herself a number of times. The tear-shaped piece of light brown felt swam before her eyes and her fingers kept trembling of their own accord, despite her efforts to hold everything in place. The silky material of the cloak she was altering made it all the more hard, but it was nothing compared to the thoughts going through her weary mind. Sealing her own fate, condemning herself, that was what she was doing. She had no better alternative and she hated it, hated herself for lacking the courage to spit in their faces and die honourably. _If Harry could see me now…_ A drop of blood spread through a corner of the brown cloth, soon joined by a bitter tear. She'd never been able to live down her failure, everyone's failure, and doubted she ever would. A drop of crimson, fading into a larger drop of mud. Funny…no matter how hard she tried to set herself apart from what they called her 'condition', she was always brought back and shackled tightly to it, sooner or later. It had been like that even at school, the powerful drop of magic that was rightfully hers always ended up being overshadowed by that of her birth, dirty as the nickname 'Mudblood' implied. It had often seemed unimportant at the time, petty name calling. Only now did she realise how stupidly confident she had been, how naïve. Only now, as she sat in this dark and dreary attic passively marking herself as bait, did she measure how far the 'blood grudges' could go.

Had it only been a year since Harry had died at the hands of Voldemort? A year of missing her two best friends, one gone forever, the other kept well away from her. It seemed to Hermione like forever, as though the times before that final battle were all a dream shaped into existence by grief and sheer exhaustion. Had she really been happy once? Had unchecked laughter existed as more than two words strung together? She honestly wasn't sure. She flung the cloak across the room, the blown patch coming partly unstitched. _Hell,_ she thought. _I'll allow myself one more day of freedom. _If they caught her, she would be taken away. It was a risk, but she knew she wouldn't be able to stand the stares, the uncomfortable whispers of those who had almost nothing to fear. As soon as she was done with her sewing, as soon as she showed her 'true colours', they would follow her like the wind until they suffocated her. They would leave an easy trail up to this tiny room, her only sanctuary. She would be snatched from her bed in the dead of the night to vanish to Merlin knows where. She would fade into darkness, like a candle almost burnt out. Pulling on an old muggle coat that had once belonged to her mother, Hermione slipped her feet into a pair of muddy shoes and left the room, carefully locking the door behind her. She would make the most of it, come what may.

A/N: I'll leave it at that, for the prologue. There is a lot of angst to come, along with plenty of surprises. You stand warned… I you want me to continue writing, please say so…along with any suggestions, remarks, etc.


	2. I

Mankind never learns from its past mistakes. Worse, after defeating Harry Potter and affirming his power over Wizarding Britain, Voldemort takes it one step further. He looks back to a time when people were dragged from their homes in the middle of the night, when they were put in trains and sent off to concentration camps, where they either worked or died. Muggleborns, scum of the Wizarding World, undeserving of their magical powers, are the new targets. Will old rivalries grow deeper and deadlier in such dark times or will they be washed away by the horror of it all, in order to make way for something rare and precious…true love? A Hermione/Draco story.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Harry Potter.

**Holocaust – I**

She stood on the pavement, just across the street from the Leaky Cauldron. Light rain was slowly soaking her coat, drenching her curls. Her bare legs were blue with cold, two poles of pale flesh between her brown skirt and her muddy shoes. Her face was set, almost expressionless. Inside her, though, a turmoil of emotions. Chocolate eyes dulled so as not to attract attention. All it would take was to cross the tarmac and go in through the door. She was still a witch, whatever anyone said or thought. She vaguely wondered if Tom had 'Mudblood proofed' the entrance yet. All those new spells, all that trouble… The innkeeper had always been nice to her and her friends, especially Harry. He had warned her last time not to come back, to please find somewhere else for afternoon tea. The Leaky Caldron was after all quite famous and she could easily be recognised. But she had seen the sadness in his face, the regret. Maybe he'd let her sit in the kitchen for a bit. Maybe he'd let her pretend for a little while longer.

Yet Hermione could not get her feet to move from the puddle in which she was standing. Loose strands of hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks. She could almost hear her mother's worried voice. _You'll catch your death, standing in the cold like that. _To catch one's death… A sudden vision of herself, running madly after Voldemort, hands outstretched. A small laugh almost escaped her lips, but she managed to choke it down. Perhaps there was some comfort to be had in persecuting others rather than being persecuted. She instantly pushed that idea out of her mind, feeling ashamed. Only beasts like Malfoy thought that way. She shuddered involuntarily at the image of the blond boy, his pointy nose and trademark sneer. According to the precious few wizard newspapers she'd been able to scavenge during the past year, he'd made himself quite a name since Voldemort's triumph, since the last time she had seen him, covered in blood, unsmiling but seeming at ease. He'd almost finished growing into a man, then, but she seemed only able to recall the face of a child, unpleasant and condescending. She bitterly wished him happiness, wherever he was.

Shaking her head ever so slightly, Hermione focused her attention on the pub again, her gaze wondering past the oblivious Muggles. She envied their ignorance in a way. Forced apart from a world she loved, she would live till the end of her days with the notion that there had once been something invariably better…something worth fighting for. Something which had been lost. _Do I dare try to taste it one more time?_ She took one step forward, out of the puddle. It was difficult, her heart beating against her ribcage in an almost painful way. Her stomach had knotted itself and her hands were balled into fists inside her pockets. Somewhere to her right, the traffic lights turned red for the cars. She took another step forward, freeing herself from the water on the ground. Faster than she knew it, she was practically running across the road and jumping onto the opposite pavement, her shoes slapping on the stone ledge. If she reached out with her hand, she could curl her fingers around the handle and turn it. Just as she was starting to do so, a voice stood out from the noise behind her, a voice so familiar it almost brought tears to her eyes.

"Hermione…"

She wanted it to be true, just as much as she was terrified and wished to run away without looking back. She'd spent so much time trying to convince herself it didn't matter, that she could live without them… How a name uttered in the rain like that of a ghost could shatter her already shaky will! Did she really want to be confronted with her past? The answer she found was yes. She needed to turn round and acknowledge him, just to check that he was alright. Years of closeness had made that need instinctive. So she gave in, taking her time so as to remember the moment forever. There he stood, a light black cloak fastened at the neck, the hood drawn over his head for protection against the weather. His robes had been charmed to look like Muggle clothing, but she somehow knew that rich, comfortable fabric had replaced the hand-me-downs of his childhood. His features had only changed in that deadening way that indicates a great grief not yet forgotten. Did she look the same?

"Ronald," Hermione heard herself whisper.

She had only ever called him that when she was angry with him. Now it seemed like she possessed no other alternative, as though diminutives and affectionate nicknames had been forgotten along the path of their lives. Did it really make him wince ever so slightly? Surely he did not expect her to behave as though nothing had happened and this was just like any other day before the war. Well maybe for him it was… Did she still know him? The clear blue eyes were familiar, but what about that which lay inside?

"What are you doing here, Hermione?" he asked her, his tone neutral.

"Going in for a drink and a chat with Tom. You?"

Somehow, she'd managed to sound casual, as though this was something she did every day, at liberty. It surprised her, but not as much as Ron apparently, for he almost took a step back. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, something she could remember him doing quite clearly, whenever he was worried or slightly annoyed. Waiting patiently for him to find something to say, she glanced at the passers-by. She could easily be recognised standing outside talking to a wizard. Ron seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for he said rather harshly:

"But Hermione, you're not allowed near places like the Leaky Cauldron anymore. You could get into trouble."

As if she didn't know it! They hadn't seen each other for a year, a small eternity in Hermione's mind, and all he could do was remind her of her situation. Anger suddenly welled up inside her, fresh and strong as she hadn't been able to muster it in months. Turning back towards the Leaky Cauldron's entrance, she set her hand firmly on the handle and pushed, stepping forward.

"I don't care."

She didn't know what else to say to him. What did he expect? That she throw herself at him and beg for his protection? The sudden familiar tavern din, the warmth of a generous fire and the smell of hot food made her feel a little better, though her heart was still beating wildly. She tried not to care whether Ron was following her or not. Spotting an empty table in the far corner, she discretely began picking her way across the room, keeping her head down. There were quite a lot of people present, but they all seemed too absorbed in various conversations to notice her demure behaviour and strictly muggle clothing. None of them had the familiar faces of old Hogwarts students. It relieved her and made her a bit sad at the same time. She still did not know exactly who had moved on how, so it would have been nice to get a glimpse of anyone she had been friends with until the end.

Sitting down at the table with her back to the room, Hermione glanced at the menu while digging into the inner pocket of her coat. Straight after Voldemort's victory, as she'd fled the battlefield with a few other surviving Muggleborns, she'd had the good sense to rush to her small Gringotts Vault and take out what little wizard money she had in there, before any sort of decree was issued. Not long after, she'd heard that the Creevey brothers had arrived at the bank a day or so later only to find their account blocked and their Galleons, Sickles and Knuts lost forever. She hadn't ventured into Wizarding London that much since, so she still had a few gold coins left. Looking at the prices on the menu, she wondered whether she ought to spend it all this time, as she probably would never get another chance. She might as well stuff her face while she could, too… Selecting a salad, a chicken and bacon pie and some chips to go with it, she waited patiently for someone to come take her order. Instead, the footsteps that came up behind her didn't stop at the side of her table. Looking very annoyed and self-conscious, Ron slid himself into the seat opposite her. He shot a worried look at the other people present, who took no notice of him whatsoever, before whispering harshly:

"What do you think you're doing? Are you crazy?"

Turning round in her seat, Hermione raised her hand to a passing waiter. The young wizard nodded and smiled apologetically, lifting up the pile of dirty plates he was balancing on each hand. She would have to wait a few more minutes. Ron seemed to find her behaviour appalling.

"Hermione, are you mad? Do you reali-"

"Oh do shut up!"

She glared at him, long and hard. _He has it so easy, with his expensive clothes and pure blood. _A part of her was horrified at that last thought, the same part that was saddened by their arguing. The other part, however, wanted nothing more than to see her lean forward and slap him across the face, before exiting the building in a huff. Unfortunately, that would have attracted far too much attention. So Hermione sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Rainwater was still dripping from her hair down the side of her neck into her collar. She shuddered slightly, still cold, but her eyes never left Ron's, which were wide open. Her cutting tone seemed to have hurt him. _I'd better make peace I suppose…_

"I believe I'm in a better position to understand the situation than you are, Ronald," she said quietly, but not unkindly. "This was to be my last time in here, anyway. I'm sorry, it's just… "

Her voice broke, suddenly hoarse with tears. She hated herself for being so formal, for breaking down in front of him a mere minute into the conversation. It was just that she'd missed both him and Harry so much! The hours she'd spent crying alone, worrying. So many memories shattered by so much grief and horror. She felt like she would never get back what was hers by right… a very large portion of her soul. Aside from books and knowledge, her friends had been everything to her. Her parents had both been killed by Death Eaters at the beginning of her 7th Year, so she had turned to the only other family she knew. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but she brushed it away fiercely, wailing:

"I miss it all so much!"

Half a second later, Ron had pulled his chair round and was hugging her as tightly as he could. Sobbing openly into his shoulder, Hermione vaguely recalled a time when he had recoiled from any sort of affectionate demonstration. They had only really started touching each other at the end of 6th Year, after Dumbledore's death, when the notion that they might easily loose each other finally dawned on them. They had even dated for a while, but had ended it by mutual agreement after a month or so. It wasn't really fair on Harry, who'd just pushed Ginny away, and they had too many other things to think about. Hermione had secretly felt relieved and she was sure Ron had too, for there had been no passion, no life in their relationship. They had managed to stay best friends until the final battle, and for that she was grateful. Presently, Hermione could feel him try to dab at her cheeks with a handkerchief and slowly lifted her face from his cloak, leaving a watery stain there. She snuffled noisily a couple of times, before taking the hanky and blowing her nose, which had become a blotchy red.

"I'm so sorry Ron."

There. It had come back to her, just like that, and rolled of her tongue like the most natural thing in the world. She actually smiled ever so slightly, leaning away from the redhead to look at him, to see if he was still angry with her. There was an expression of concern on his face, along with something deeper. He suddenly lent forward and hugged her again, almost harder, whispering inaudible things in her ear. Crushed, Hermione kept still and was silent, letting him, for it felt so good to be held again, to feel human warmth seeping through her damp clothes into her freezing skin. The best restorative in the world.

"- been so worried about you. I actually thought you were dead, until I saw your name on one of the lists at the Ministry. I couldn't exactly go looking for you, for obvious reasons, but I was so relieved to know that you'd survived that terrible battle. Not one day goes by without thoughts of you and Harry swimming round my head…Hermione… I haven't been able to mourn…"

It was her turn to comfort him, for she well knew what he meant. It was a miracle they'd let him live. In order to start the new life they'd mercifully granted him, he'd had to adhere to their strict rules, their iron laws. It was forbidden to utter the name Harry Potter in the Wizarding World. Those that had stood by him in battle and survived were not allowed to look back, to show any trace of emotion regarding what they had lost. They had been taken in by the new regime and were expected to abide by its will, or face terrible consequences.

"It's ok… inside you have. We all miss him and will never forget him, whatever they do to us."

Ron's grip on her loosened and he straightened himself as the waiter finally approached their table, a notepad and an enchanted quill floating in the air beside him. Hermione's eyes widened slightly at this display of magic and a deep sense of longing filled her. It had been so long… It was with a slightly shaky voice that she ordered her food, glancing uncomfortably at the tabletop as Ron ordered his. When the waiter finally left, she could not bring herself to look back up again. Instead, she breathed deeply and asked quietly:

"Didn't you have someone to meet around here, something to do? I don't want to keep you from your obligations."

"No, it's ok. I was only going to Quality Quidditch Supplies to buy a new broom servicing kit. I can do that later."

"Oh, so are you a famous Quidditch player now? Go on, which team? Not the Canons!"

Hermione could feel the forcefulness in her tone, but hoped Ron would be too busy telling her his good news to notice it. Quidditch was never something she'd been interested in and it now seemed more irrelevant than ever… but then if her friend had found something that made him happy, she thought she should show some enthusiasm. However, Ron looked crestfallen as he replied in a whisper:

"No. I haven't played since that day… since we won only to loose everything a few hours later. I just couldn't…"

The game. That was something she'd completely forgotten about, in the light of what had happened just after it. Harry had won the Tournament, snatching the Golden Snitch from in front of the Slytherin Seeker's nose. With Malfoy gone at the end of their 6th Year, his opponent had been no real match, but the stands had still erupted, Hermione along with anyone else. The tension had been building up almost to boiling point as of late, what with all the attacks on the Muggleborn students' families. They'd needed this small victory, craved it. The elation didn't last long, though, for the alarm was raised right in the middle of the after-game festivities. The Death Eaters were attacking the school. Hermione had been congratulating Ron on his superb keeping of the goal hoops. Harry was nowhere in sight. The rest was pandemonium.

"What do you do then?"

"I'm an International Magical Co-operator. That's the only reason why I still use a broom."

"Can't you Apparate? You did get the licence in the end!"

"Oh I do, if it's very far away. It's just become very complicated, as everywhere is getting warded off against it. There are only a select few Apparition points still open to the public in most countries. I still need my broom to fly from there to whatever place I need to be."

"It sounds like a very interesting job… you should be proud," said Hermione, a tad envious.

Ron did not seem to share that opinion, though, for he shook his head slightly. He seemed uncomfortable, for he shifted nervously in his seat, glancing around to see if their food was ready. Indeed, the waiter was heading towards them, two plates of steaming food before him. Drinks followed behind him, floating in the air, occasionally spilling a drop or so on unfortunate customers, to whom they apologised instantly. The redhead looked relieved at the prospect of stuffing himself, for he picked up his knife and fork while saying rather abruptly:

"It's just work. I do what I'm told."

His tone was final. Hermione knew she'd get nothing more out of him on the subject and decided to leave it at that. After all, she had so many other questions to ask. Cutting her pie into smaller pieces, she swallowed a few, barely chewing. The food tasted so good, after all those weeks of cold supermarket dinners! The prospect of a full stomach! Drinking deeply from her glass of pumpkin juice, she watched Ron scoff down his own lunch, transported back to many a happy feast at Hogwarts. He hadn't changed so much after all and of that she was glad. Picking a chip up with her fingers, she popped it into her mouth, savouring the salty taste.

"How is everyone? I mean everyone who…your family?"

"Fred and Charlie didn't make it… we were all devastated of course, but George was the worst. He's… he's in St Mungo's. In the psychiatric ward… I was going to go and visit him this evening, though I doubt it'll change anything if I do. He doesn't even recognise Mum anymore."

"Oh how awful… poor Molly, it must be so hard on her… on you all. What about Bill and Fleur?"

She couldn't bring herself to ask about Ginny, not just yet…the other person she missed the most, her only real female friend throughout Hogwarts. They hadn't seen each other at all during the battle, hadn't had a chance to say good luck… goodbye. So, piling her fork with peas and bits of chicken, she ate in silence as Ron told her of his older brother and his wife.

"They're a happily married couple, though you can imagine how hard it is what with Bill's, er, condition. I think Fleur, who's a strict vegetarian, is getting rather tired of having to serve him huge slabs of meat at every meal. They're not sure whether they want children… which is understandable. I don't think I could stand a bunch of little half-werewolf redheads running round shouting 'I vant ze treacle tart, I vant!'"

They both laughed at the idea, though their minds were elsewhere. There was an uncomfortable silence where Ron guessed what Hermione was thinking about and seemed to make up his mind what to tell her. The former Gryffindor waited with baited breath, her glass halfway to her lips. Ginny had survived, but that didn't mean she was coping well. Was she ill? Had she gone mad like George?

"She's…ok. Look, Hermione, I don't know what you might have heard…"

"Nothing. I've heard nothing."

"She… you remember when the battle started? When we couldn't find _him_ anywhere?"

Hermione nodded, her throat tightening. Mechanically setting her glass down, she folded her hands on her lap. She wasn't sure she fully understood what Ron was getting at.

"Well it turned out later that Ginny was missing too. They were together… celebrating. It took her quite a while to tell us, but by then Mum had already guessed…it was becoming pretty obvious too. She had a baby boy, three months ago."

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth as all the implications of this revelation hit her. Ginny… Ginny was a mother. What was more, the mother of Harry's child… She suddenly wished she had been at her friend's side all those months of wait. How terrible it must have been for her to know that her baby would never know its father and would probably never be told his name, either! That it would have to grow up in a world such as theirs had become!

"She wanted to name the baby after _him_, but of course that's not allowed. So she chose James instead… actually, it was as far as Mum would allow her to go."

"But are they safe? I mean, does anyone know that…that Harry is…?"

She couldn't bring herself to say the words 'Harry' and 'father' out loud in the same sentence. Accepting that one of her best friends had gone as far as to start a family forced her to grow up in a way she wasn't yet ready for. It instantly made her feel childish and selfish, for she had known how much Harry wanted a family of his own, after loosing his parents and Sirius. Recalling the countless nights they had spent in the Gryffindor Common Room talking about their future, about their plans, she felt tears well up in her eyes again. _Wherever you are…watch over them,_ she pleaded silently, knowing that he already did.

"Apart from the family? No, of course not. I dread what they'd do to them both if they ever found out. Dad forced Ginny to say she had been raped during the battle, so the date would correspond and the whole thing would appear credible. They don't allow abortion anymore, as they need as many new wizards as they can, what with the old bloodlines dying out…she wouldn't have gone through with it anyway," said Ron, shaking his head.

_And I completely understand her, and so should you Ron!_ Hermione silently screamed. Of course Ginny could never have abandoned her baby, Harry's baby even less, even if it meant she gave up safety instead. She'd loved him too much. She probably still did, poor thing.

"I'd like to see her…talk to her," she said, suddenly, surprising herself almost as much as Ron, who replied in a cold tone:

"I'm afraid not. They'll know instantly if you come to the Burrow. It's already terribly risky for me to have lunch with you, especially in here… if they find me, they'll arrest me, Hermione."

"What do you think they'll do to me?" she murmured, almost inaudibly, pushing her half-finished plate away from her, her appetite suddenly lost.

"I… why aren't you wearing your insignia, Hermione? Haven't you been given one?"

He meant the brown drop of material she had been trying to sew onto her cloak earlier, only he called it her 'insignia' because it made it out to be something else than what it really was, something she knew Ron refused to acknowledge… a marking of her blood. She was an outcast, a target for something which had only started to unravel. Something she'd only heard rumours about, rumours that made what they called her dirty blood freeze.

"Yes, I have. Shortly after the battle, they found me. They took away all my magical possessions, ruined most of my muggle ones. They snapped my wand in half and burned it before my eyes, giving me a piece of fabric instead. I refuse to wear it."

"But you have to! Hermione you must! It is a form of protection, according to the papers, their papers. If you wear it, then you are registered and no harm can befall you. But if they catch you without…"

Draining her pumpkin juice, Hermione fished a Galleon and a couple of Knuts out of her pocket and set them down on the table with a clang. Getting up, she waited for Ron to get to his feet, which he did with almost alarming rapidity, grabbing hold of her arm.

"Don't go! I'm sorry… I can't begin to imagine what it must be like for you out there… I wish I could do something for you, Hermione. I miss you."

All the anger and revolt that she had felt a moment ago dissolved at his last words. Of course he could not know. Hugging him again, she let herself smile one last time. He had given her far more in the hour they had just spent together than he could ever fathom.

"I miss you too… but I really must go now. Give my love to everyone…especially Ginny and the baby. And take care of yourself, Ron… don't get caught up in it too far."

With that, she turned and slowly made her way back across the room, keeping her head down as she had become accustomed to do. She didn't see the tears in Ron's eyes as he stood watching her leave. She didn't see the torn expression he wore on his face, indicating an internal struggle between the urge to damn the consequences and catch up with her, and that to sit back down and act as though nothing had happened. As though he hadn't just been openly enjoying the company of a Mudblood. The other thing she didn't see as she closed the door behind her and gave herself over to the rain once more, was the tall dark figure sitting at the bar, his thoughtful gaze fixed on her, his thin lips twisted into a malevolent little smile.

A/N: I don't usually write chapters that long (just so you be warned), but this one just seemed to flow out of my fingertips and into the keyboard. I hope you enjoyed it and that you will let me know your thoughts… I'm on holiday for the next two weeks, but will be terribly busy, so I don't know when I'll next be able to update.


	3. II

Mankind never learns from its past mistakes. Worse, after defeating Harry Potter and affirming his power over Wizarding Britain, Voldemort takes it one step further. He looks back to a time when people were dragged from their homes in the middle of the night, when they were put in trains and sent off to concentration camps, where they either worked or died. Muggleborns, scum of the Wizarding World, undeserving of their magical powers, are the new targets. Will old rivalries grow deeper and deadlier in such dark times or will they be washed away by the horror of it all, in order to make way for something rare and precious…true love? A Hermione/Draco story.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Harry Potter.

**Holocaust – II**

He stood at the edge of the room, as usual, waiting to be called forth. Other reports came before, reports of various natures, probably less important than his. That little hair-dye spell had actually proved useful for something. After months of keeping a lookout in the Leaky Caldron, he'd finally trapped what he considered the most interesting prey of all. Oh, he'd caught others of course. After all, he had always been keen on fulfilling the tasks he was set. Also, he was paid handsomely to do the job… probably because no one else wanted it, he thought bitterly. But it didn't matter. The few nostalgic Mudbloods he'd happened upon enjoying a meal in the Diagon Alley pub didn't matter either now. The present he was about to hand to his Master on a silver platter outshone them by far. Hermione Granger, Potter's right-hand girl, the Know-It-All of Hogwarts. What was it the teachers used to call her? The most brilliant witch of her Year, possibly of her time. Well… that was before. He clenched his teeth for a moment, before forcing himself to relax. The Lord disliked such displays of emotion, preferring self-control and affected indifference. Yet there would still be revenge and he could not help but feel anxious to see it happen.

"Young Master Malfoy, Secret Services."

Stepping forward into the torchlight, Draco felt a sarcastic smile build on his lips. It was almost a disappointment to have to squash it. Secret Services… who did they think they were fooling? Everyone in the room knew where he did his surveillance. Theodore had already teased him to no end about it, flaunting his job as Junior Advisor to the Prime Minister. If you could so call that which sat on the stone chair before him. There had been no election, no votes. He had taken the place of power for himself, of course… as was his right, in a way, as Draco kept telling himself. Voldemort had won the war. Scrimgeour had been conveniently disposed of. What else was there to expect?

Having arrived in front of his Master's chair, he knelt on the cold, hard ground and waited. How they loved humiliating him for what his father had done! Thankfully, no one outside the Death Eaters' innermost circles knew what he'd been going through for the past year. Why, he'd even been allowed to build himself a reputation of power out there. He'd been told they needed to seem like a coherent and strong knot, so as to keep the masses under control. While most of Britain's magical population believed him to be a rich, young bachelor in the Dark Lord's favour, Draco was in fact considered as little more than a servant amongst his peers. He was in disgrace for something he hadn't done. However, as Voldemort commanded him to rise in a chilly tone, he somehow felt his precious piece of information was going to change all that.

"So, Draco Malfoy… what tidings do you bring from the dark corners of the Leaky Cauldron?"

He wouldn't take the bait. He had his killing curse and knew when to cast it, as the saying went. Clearing his throat discreetly, he fixed his gaze on the ground and tried to look humble.

"I believe I have something that will please you, Master."

"Oh really? Amuse me then, don't hold back."

He couldn't even clench his fists, couldn't let his nostrils flare in anger. It was like living in an aquarium, under a bright light. It was as though he were being tried for murder and any little movement could be interpreted in one way or another.

"At noon today, I saw the Mudblood Hermione Granger enter the Leaky Cauldron in the company of Ronald Weasley. She was not wearing her insignia. I think we can safely erase her name from the P.M.I list without consulting Mr. Shacklebolt."

Looking up through his hair, now thankfully returned to its usual silvery-blond, Draco saw the Dark Lord sit just a bit straighter in his high-backed chair at the mention of Potter's best friends. Ron Weasley was no longer too much of a sore spot, as he actually worked for them now. Not that they let him understand the full importance of the messages he carried to the different Magical Ministries around the world, of course. Hermione Granger, however, was a different matter. She was a sore spot, her mere existence an affront to any respectable, pureblood wizard.

That meddlesome Kingsley Shacklebolt and his Protection of Muggleborn Individuals list! It had been created just after the final battle in a desperate attempt (Draco considered it to be a foolish waste of time and effort) to protect the survivors with no name and bloodline to save them. Voldemort had tried to destroy it, to no avail. He'd then picked a name at random on the list and sent his men to capture and torture the wretch, but their spells and punches had seemed to meet a solid, invisible wall of protection around the victim. Shacklebolt had been severely punished for his little trick, but had been allowed to remain in charge of the list. What he did not know, however, was that Voldemort had created a magical law able to counter the effects of the list. If a Mudblood whose name was written down broke one of the new rules in anyway, the barrier of protection would disappear and they would be left to face the consequences. None were in possession of a wand anymore, so it wasn't like they could put up much of a fight.

"Granger, is that so? Good, good. I'm pleased with you, Draco… even though I would rather you keep any such suggestions to yourself next time. I will deal with the Mudblood Granger's case personally. Dismissed."

His insides boiling with rage, Draco bowed deeply before exiting the room. Nothing! Not the slightest reward for all his hard work… Oh, sure, a couple words of praise thrown in for good measure, to keep the troops docile. He didn't care about those anymore, hadn't for quite a while. They didn't earn him the respect he so craved, the respect he deserved. It seemed as though nothing he did could ever buy him back into the Lord's good graces. Walking along the dark corridor, Draco felt like punching the stone walls, cutting his knuckles open and letting the deep crimson blood run down his hand. At least the pain would be real, uncomfortable but real. Pain he could explain. His life he could not.

A/N: Yes, it was a very short chapter and yes, Draco is an utter and complete git. But I felt that I had to give you something after so long an absence and as I start exams next Monday, I really won't be able to write for my own pleasure until July. In the meantime, try to believe me when I say that Draco will not remain like this forever. He's just really frustrated at the moment.


	4. III

Mankind never learns from its past mistakes. Worse, after defeating Harry Potter and affirming his power over Wizarding Britain, Voldemort takes it one step further. He looks back to a time when people were dragged from their homes in the middle of the night, when they were put in trains and sent off to concentration camps, where they either worked or died. Muggleborns, scum of the Wizarding World, undeserving of their magical powers, are the new targets. Will old rivalries grow deeper and deadlier in such dark times or will they be washed away by the horror of it all, in order to make way for something rare and precious…true love? A Hermione/Draco story.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Harry Potter.

**Holocaust – III**

Hermione decided to take a detour, despite the rain pounding down on her. She couldn't yet face the dreariness of her dismal little room, not after such an emotionally-charged encounter. Running across soggy parks and jumping over streaming gutters, she tried to remain as long as possible beneath shop awnings, even though she couldn't possibly get any wetter than she already was. It was the cold that bothered her really, so as soon as she reached the London Library in St James's Square, she dove in to seek the warmth enclosed in those endless halls of knowledge. The new Wizard Government had kept her away from magical tomes of any kind, but it couldn't take from her the Muggle literature that she loved just as much. However, she was after something other than comfort that afternoon. Having lived through a war and suffered the aftermath had kept her well away from the History section the past year, but Hermione felt determined as she made her way towards it, dripping water all over the marble floor.

There were quite a few people in the library, probably due to the abominable weather, but none paid Hermione any attention. Sadly, she felt much more at ease amongst the Muggles who roamed the halls, whose world she had put aside almost eight years ago, than surrounded by her own kind in the Leaky Cauldron. None of the individuals searching the shelves or reading quietly on the couches actively wished her dead. None of them knew the first thing about Potions, Quidditch and Voldemort, being preoccupied instead with problems like global warming and the impending Millennium Bug, just a mere six months away. Hermione loved them for their problems that seemed so small in comparison (only they weren't really of course, it was just that she had been set apart from many of those concerns long ago to care much anymore). She felt at peace, at least for a little while.

Scanning the rows of books and the tags that detailed the different sections, Hermione wondered at her sudden macabre curiosity. She knew a little about World War II, about the millions of people, mostly Jews but also gypsies, homosexuals, disabled people and political prisoners, who had been ruthlessly executed in camps all over Eastern Europe. She'd seen a couple of films during the holidays she spent away from Hogwarts and had even read a few references to it in her History of Magic manuals, but had been too young when she left Muggle school to have learnt about it properly. What she did know of, however, was the link between the genocide, Hitler's dictatorship and the issue of the 'purity of race'.

At last finding the correct section, Hermione knelt down, running the tips of her fingers over the plasticized spines. Titles kept jumping out at her, but she didn't really know exactly what she was looking for. Books containing columns of bone-chilling statistics would be of no help to her and neither would the several survivor testimonies she stumbled across. Oppression and terror was different for everyone and she didn't think any of the texts would aid her to cope. What she wanted was an inkling of what might lie ahead, even though a large part of her hoped it would never come to that. Finally, she selected a couple of books on the concentration camps and was about to get up when a dark volume caught her eye. 'Scientific and Medical Experiments conducted by the Nazi Doctors'. A chill ran up her spine, but she ignored it and added the book to her pile.

Sitting at one of the long wooden tables in the Reading Room, Hermione began to while away the afternoon, pouring over the tomes, filing away in her mind any piece of information she thought might be useful. Sometimes she left her chair to search for other books, books on the start of the war, on the political problems that with growing dread she realised were quite similar to the ones at present within the Magical Community. She thought of Ron, working for the Ministry… for Voldemort. It was simply power over the masses by making them feel important, useful. Give them security, give them the sentiment of being part of 'it' (never mind what 'it' really was) and they will comply, regardless of their previous ideals. It pained her that Ron seemed to be a perfect example and that he kept resurfacing constantly in her thoughts.

It was only as she glanced up at the clock above the door to the Reading Room that Hermione realised that she'd been there three hours and that if she wanted to get home before nightfall, she'd better hurry. Picking up the books that were scattered around her, she noticed one in particular she hadn't yet looked through. With a second chill coursing through her, she saw that it was the one on the scientific experiments that had been undertaken in certain camps. Momentarily forgetting about the other tomes waiting to be put away, she tentatively opened it to the first page, her fingers barely touching it as though it were a dangerous animal with a tendency to unexpectedly lash out. Should she really be reading this? A large part of her wanted nothing to do with the knowledge that lay inside the book – a feeling she'd never experienced before when reading. But what if it contained some valuable information? After all, the whole conflict responsible for the mess the Wizarding world was in came down to one simple, biological element: blood…

_"Although most concentration camps were merely used to house and later exterminate individuals that the members of the Nazi party judged undesirable, some included medical facilities where scientific experiments were carried out on the prisoners. Taking advantage of the nearly endless supply of subjects and the inhuman way in which these were regarded (which meant that abusive treatment would go unpunished), the doctors working in these camps conducted all sorts of tests that, even though most resulted in no more than a horrific, painful death for the victim, served to greatly advance medical knowledge at the time…"_

Hermione shut the book with a hard snap and pushed it away. What horrors could be committed under all sorts of excuses! In the name of science! She shuddered, feeling colder than ever. What if Voldemort took an interest in the blood of Muggleborns? What if he tried to find out why those he considered unworthy of possessing magical abilities did, even if it would cost his victims their lives? Hermione didn't even want to think about it, though she knew that if it ever did come to that… Hastily putting all the books away, she took her coat from the back of her chair and left, almost running out of the library and into the street, where the rain had thankfully stopped. Walking along the pavement in the direction of what she still couldn't bring herself to call a home, Hermione tried to slow the beating of her heart with deep, measured breaths. Voldemort had no interested in finding out what constituted her blood. It was what he hated most. If worst came to worst, all he would do was simply get rid of her as swiftly as possible.

Before she knew it, lost in her thoughts, Hermione had reached the front door of the boarding house where she rented her little room. Letting herself in, she started as she saw Mrs Finn, the landlady, sitting in an armchair in the common living room with the cat on her lap. The woman had been, if not exactly friendly, at least understanding of Hermione's situation. She knew that the only job Hermione had been able to find (as a cleaner in a supermarket) without any Muggle qualifications didn't pay very much and she never complained if the rent came in a couple of days late.

"Good evening Mrs Finn. Do you think I could use your kettle for a cup of tea before I head up to bed? Mine broke yesterday…"

Waiting for the older woman to answer, Hermione tried to push a smile onto her face. She hated having to ask for small favours all the time. When she'd been a student at Hogwarts, still naive and relatively carefree, she'd promised herself never to depend on anyone else as soon as she could get a job. How quickly all that had changed, as the opportunities open to her before the war had vanished one after the other… Forcing her mind back to the present moment, Hermione saw Mrs Finn looking back at her with a strange, distant look in her eyes. She almost seemed sad about something, yet when she opened her mouth her voice was even.

"Of course you can, dear."

Refocusing her attention on the playful tabby, Mrs Finn gripped the armchair softly with her left hand. Her wedding ring, old but well cared for, flashed briefly on her finger. Mr Finn had left years ago and never come back. Hermione blamed her landlady's strange behaviour on a sudden surge of painful melancholy. As she was about to head into the kitchen, Mrs Finn said softly:

"Could you shut the living room door, please?"

It was almost as if a berated child had spoken and Hermione frowned, but did as she was asked. After having made herself some tea, she carried the steaming mug up the three flights of rickety stairs, careful not to spill any of the fragrant brown liquid. So concentrated was she on her charge she failed to notice that the door to her room was open until she reached inside her coat pocket for the key. Glancing up, she let out a small cry of surprise, which immediately died in her throat as two muffled voices hissed _'Lumos'_. The mug trembled in her hand, sloshing some of the tea down her front. She took a step backwards, but the men were already in the doorway, the first one reaching out to grab her arm. She wanted to scream and fight but found that she couldn't. She wanted to slam her cup down over the brute's head and make a run for it. Instead, her fingers merely loosened and a shattering noise filled the air. Something wet hit her legs as she felt tears reach the corners of her eyes. It couldn't be happening, not now.

"We understand you went somewhere you shouldn't today, Miss Granger. Thought you wouldn't be recognised without your insignia? My, my… to say they told us you were smart. Well, we should be grateful for your recklessness really… our Lord the Prime Minister certainly is."

It was only when the man mentioned Voldemort that Hermione's instincts finally kicked in. In her mind, she saw the look on Mrs Finn's face, while the woman's subdued tone rang in her ears. She was a Muggle! She had nothing to do with Hermione's world. Why the hell had she let these two strange men in? As Hermione tried to pull away and run for the stairs, she felt like she was choking, slowly and painfully. It was just like everything she had read about that very afternoon. She heard someone utter a curse and felt the beginning effects of the Imperius creep up on her. She tried to remember her DA trainings with Harry, tried to recall how to throw it off… but it was no use. There was nothing to fight for anymore.

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update, but I started university in September and have been quite busy. Also, I apologize if this chapter wasn't as interesting as the rest (mostly about Hermione's trip to the library, really) but there are elements in it crucial to the overall plot. As you can tell, it's not a very nice story… if you feel uncomfortable or squeamish or whatever (I totally understand if you do), I would advise you to simply leave it at that and stop reading now. Any form of criticism is welcome, but please don't complain that I didn't warn you about the angsty contents.


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